Chapter 38 38. Reluctant Flame!
Tina’s POV
The next thing he said almost made me swallow my tongue. He brazenly spoke as if expecting Saintilia to drop everything and leave with him. His delusions were breathtaking in their sheer audacity. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow still managed to carry across the tense atmosphere. "She’s coming with me" he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, as if he were merely reminding me of something I had forgotten. "I can give her more than this." He gestured vaguely at the opulent surroundings, a flicker of genuine contempt in his eyes.
It wasn't just a request; it was an indictment of her entire life, delivered with the unwavering confidence of a man who genuinely believed the world would rearrange itself to suit his him.
I was genuinely disturbed and fought to keep my emotions checked. Was he testing my patience? I wanted to know if he was joking, so I remained silent, maintaining my composure and continuing to listen. At some point, all I could hear was him babbling about how he desperately longed for the stabilizing care of a woman, and that he was more than ready to be with Saintilia. Sarcastically, I offered myself in her place, hoping he would grasp the absurdity of his request.
His justifications were nothing but a flimsy veil, and with every word he spoke, he drew it back himself. He only convinced me of one thing: He wanted a live-in maid and a woman to warm his bed. A man like Emilio, with his obvious determination and resources, should have established a family life by now. It makes one wonder if there is some underlying issue or past complication that has prevented him from doing so. His every word and gesture was so deliberate, so transactional, that it planted a seed of suspicion in my mind. I could not shake the feeling that beneath this cold, calculating exterior, there was a much darker hunger driving him..
And yet, he approached this proposal as if it were a generous offer, a blessing he was bestowing upon us. It was an insult. Saintilia possessed a beauty that could capture the heart of any worthy man, if only she could break free from this village. But he was fixated on her with a terrifying determination, deploying every tactic at his disposal. His most powerful weapon was a promise he could provide a better life, a promise that could easily turn into a tragedy.
The sheer audacity of the man was infuriating. Who did he think he was to slander Saintilia with such a vile label? She was the furthest thing from the image he tried to paint of her, and his accusation was a gross injustice. And yet, here he was, proposing. The contradiction was maddening, a man who could hold such a low opinion of her character while simultaneously seeking to claim her for himself. It made his entire proposition feel less like an offer and more like a calculated act of deceit.
Resentment boiled inside me, and my hand itched to slap his arrogant face. But a deeper instinct held me back. First, I needed to know the full extent of what he was up to. Desperate to regain my composure, I stood up abruptly and walked toward the kitchen, pretending I needed a private word with Saintilia.
I turned back to him and asked for his age, just to irritate him. I wanted him to feel just how ridiculous it was for him to waltz in here thinking he owned the place. Emilio was acutely aware of the chasm between them. He couldn't ignore the blatant reality that Saintilia was standing at the brilliant dawn of her life, while he was already walking through his late afternoon.
The distance to the kitchen was short; I knew she had heard every word. My eyes met hers, and with a silent look, I asked her to follow me. I refused to make this decision alone. The power to choose, to accept or reject his despicable offer had to be entirely hers.
I also wanted Saintilia to understand that this man did not mean well. She absolutely had a choice to decline his proposal no matter how materially flavorful it appeared.
"Thirty-seven, you say, huh?"
I couldn't tell what she was thinking or how desperately she might be longing for someone to finally care about her. His offer, despite the conditions, was temptingly stable even to me. But I reminded myself he wasn't here for me.
Saintilia's POV
The kitchen in the courtyard was a small, three-sided structure, essentially a tin roof supported by simple posts, leaving it wide open to the elements. It provided barely enough shade to prevent outright heatstroke and offered no privacy whatsoever. Ultimately, sound carried effortlessly across the short distance, allowing me to hear every word of their conversation taking place feet away.
I was on my knees, bent over the pile of burnt wood, blowing as hard as my lungs would allow, struggling with fierce concentration to bring life back into the dormant embers. The thick, acrid smoke that instantly filled the air swirled violently around my face, giving me a sudden, dizzying rush that forced me to pull my head away and gasp for a clean breath. Even after all these years of making fire every single day, I was still easily affected by the smoke’s harsh bite.
When Tina spoke, her voice sharp and strained, I finally took notice of the man standing there. I remembered him instantly; he was the watcher at the river. I did not acknowledge his presence, forcing my attention back to the critical task of coaxing the flame to life. Whatever reason he had for his visit was, none of my concern, yet a sharp awareness of his gaze made me wonder about his business with Tina.
I continued fanning the smoke with a large, worn piece of cardboard, pouring my will into the effort. As Tina and the man walked toward the small, shaded porch area of the house, my fire finally caught. Just then, Tina called out, asking me to prepare coffee. At that moment, a familiar irritation flared within me. His presence was an unwelcome disruption, a stone thrown into the steady, predictable current of our daily routine. I resented the way his mere existence had fractured our routine, pulling me away from the simple tasks that anchored my day.
It might seem strange that anyone would crave hot coffee in this oppressive heat, but we were bound by this way of life. When a visitor came to our home, serving coffee was the expected, polite thing to do, regardless of the hour of the day. It was a formality that could not be dismissed.
A protocol that became more like second nature. It was a tradition that transcended comfort, a silent language of respect and social order. The steam rising from the cups was a testament to our adherence from one villager to another. A performance of civility that the heat could not melt away. It was a duty heavier than the sweltering sun.